NARUHINA: THE EPILOGUE Complete
by kublakhan27
Summary: Parts 1-10 revised...the final version.


NARUHINA: THE EPILOGUE (revised)

I.

A proper womb presided over a coronation.

I was an instant queen

of a near-supreme periphery,

a double-barreled oyster

of my village's nobility.

Observe, my father bid me in my infancy,

the playground that paralleled our court

like a placebo.

Turn your cheek to young anarchy's

scurrying bazaar

and altogether shun the blond silhouette

tree-twirling on his idiot-throne

like an unemployed jester.

Father-free the day

the simple multitude denied

my pearl vision social membership,

I was accepted by the fatherless..

Hyperventilation passed for entertainment

on the vaguely royal visit.

But jester intervention robbed the bully coup's

banquet of its punchbowl garb polished

with the grimy spike of spit and tears.

I was saved by the boy

who didn't look me in the eyes.

II.

Elementary classroom acoustics swelled

thick into theatrical fidelity

behind the orange swagger of plum stitches

straddling his soft white shoulders

in spontaneous combustion of show-and-tell.

He was my first movie.

(The token joker that would valedictate

the class of the reddening village sky.

The custodian that would thin out

turmoiled prophecies driven awry.)

We were all his dramatic irony.

III.

With sly amusement the desert smirks

at the menu of tease and torture

served up by its solar chaperone,

before time's amethyst allotment

nudges into its illumined office,

blotching out agendas and evident outcomes

with its lunar stamp of bluntness.

A desert-mooned field trip

found me matriculating in a waterfall

uncharting an expanding galaxy of flesh,

crystal bead constellations

sliding down my pale firmament.

Maybe a night's dream

jigsawed his surroundings

sleepwalking him by the bladder

to the ledges of my virginal fountain.

Who would I in royal vanity have been

to rob him frontally of sleepwalk bliss

with decibel direction?

Must all young comedies of error

curdle into horror when

a hidden girl's soft hair swivels

and reveals a banshee's mouth?

IV.

They made me wonder where nature

hid its famed silken-winged freeway

from adhesive residential larva.

My retinal royalty

was bustled to a squint

to register the flashpoint flowering

of fashion sense

by the girls with whom I shared my work and youth.

Cracked fabrics unveiled new anatomies

like the moulting mantises of the biologist

I worked alongside.

I grew up inside a zipper,

just like nature's caterpillar;

no winged secretions of mine would hedge

secrecy's whistle-blowing shrubbery.

My eyes were my wings,

and on their own were no one's mystery,

like the discipline declared

by his spreading sweat-sequestered torso.

No mystery to me,

like his favourite colour,

too swirled up in the frantic extrovert's

paraphernalia for clarity

among a ho-hum village

ever-mindful of the peace owed

to the passing of a blur.

To the heiress of the near-entire

village's superintendency

of sight,

no mystery waddles in the subtlety

of pink as his favourite colour

V.

Maybe the bravery to talk to him

would meet with a smile's consent

to laugh with him.

Laughter lends a lingo to nicknames

and maybe I'm well-read enough

to nickname him.

And were the opportunity to smile on me

as he does on all good intentions,

I'd call him

Anahota.

Why must these royal eyes,

so close to foolproof perfection,

have to save his cells for

the lonely simile of slumber vision?

In live motion let me see them flush

in the heaving honour of his training regiment,

chipping only soft enough to harden

(never crack) his sacred pillars

of devotion, compassion

and unconditional love.

I'd call him Anahota.

The Heart Chakra.

Colours of association:

pink and green.

VI.

My quivering lips

were on the cusp of thanking God

at the sight of his sparing all your vital points

of his solemn ceremonial pins.

Then I read the name

off the lips of the Robed One

photo-opping his apocalyptic acupuncture

for a village under red prophetic sky,

bleeding from the sort of wound

deemed myth against the famed

auras of its surveillances.

A village armed with the revelation

of a royal family's genetic heirloom:

perfect eyesight everywhere.

And the blemish of a blind spot

everywhere.

VII.

Shrunken but in view

I saw the playground.

My wrist gravitated to the harness

of my father's hand

as he shook his head and said

ignore him.

That boy is dangerous for miles.

Whispers of agreement

climbed the murmur of the crowd

and dove from their mouths in horror

when the hollow pop of a broken lock

rhymed with my arm severing

the walk of protocol to run to you.

Like a paper plane with a rumpled wing,

my good arm convinced enough wind

to accept a limp for a sprint.

Sandpaper chants kept pace

with my ears:

get her,

the one from the royal clan

with the weird eyes

that think it makes them

better than us.

I bet she's snobby like them too.

Let's teach her a lesson.

This time

he didn't need to drop jesterhood

for monotone threats to leave me alone.

The tools of his smile so close by

was always jest enough to entertain me,

stunt double for my own family.

This time

I would bring the monotone to him.

VIII.

What is the great divide?

Is it the mapped borders

of ourselves and neighbours

so adamant on paper?

Adjacent pairs of crossed arms

like duelling airlocks?

Is it the instant prairie

of resigned demolition

traversed by me,

trip by scabbing trip,

to split the line of fire

traced helplessly by his sedation

to the coming march of the Robed Man?

Or was it me,

shunning loud pleas on one end

and hushed threats on the other

to fulfill the shared philosophy of both,

half-dipped in blood?

(Connect people where division lives.)

Almost theatrical

was the pace of the Robed Man,

saving me in a way unlike the boy

who never knew I noticed.

I wouldn't have to scream

in accordance with the dream

I pulled him through in years

following his playground rescue.

There was time for every syllable

imprisoned to be freed.

The pace of the Robed Man saved my dream,

even in his clearing of the path.

A sooner leap from the fence of fear

could have put me in the path of his pins,

landing my impaled body on the meant target

like a Shakespearean pincushion.

No such apocalypse was ever needed

for me to divide his body

from the unforgiving world

with my own.

Unzip my waiting butterfly wings,

I would have told him,

and bring connection to division.

And look me in the eyes.

Our stomachs never met

but it looked like I widened your eyes

as my own thinned to closure.

The royal stunt double overshot her mark.

IX.

When did the sky turn blue again?

Circumstantial alternative

to the historic child's query,

yet I could inquire all the same

and incite communal shrugs

among no one.

Have I ever been anyone beyond a child?

(Pawned off by a frustrated father

to a teacher

compelled to be to me

a mother.

One classmate ran off with work,

away from obsession,

but returned focused with his own pack to lead.

Another rarely lifted a lash

off the demographics of his microscope,

focus and obsessed at once.)

I obsessed over love,

love around the orange threads

clothing him like sunset,

nourishing as much benevolence

as hyper human legs can support.

But no focus.

Just a child asking why the simply obvious

was not among my tight-lipped propensity

to not pass tests let along pose them.

X.

I open my hungover eyes

to blue sky and no dividing line.

Now I see the crowd I earlier defied

gathered round me asking everyone but me,

what was I thinking,

just as a frustrated parent

would inquire of a danger-dodging child.

Before the end

I only wanted him to hear me,

before danger locked on

to his sadistic cribbage fate.

I wanted him to notice

what I hid from those who bore

no curiosity of what I had.

My damsel dimensions refused to compromise

with the fishnet festivities I longed to celebrate

surprise-party style

with him.

Is pink your favourite colour too,

Death?

I saw the Robed Man in the litany

of consciousness.

You are all I see in the vicinity

of unrequited growth.

Love,

like the world you clean up,

was never let in on the blind spot.

06 27 11


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